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I read a little too much literature (I think), and pretend that I can really write beautiful poetry. Poetry, in its crisp, rhyming sonnet form, which I delude myself will cause the birds to sing and the tears to flow. So here is a blog (or rather, an online sonnetry laboratory and museum), dedicated entirely to the art of the sonnet, and whatever enmanglement of it I can produce.

Mothers

'Who poisoned my boy? Who poisoned my boy?' She goes around asking everyone. In her arms the rigid corpse of her son, Paralysed arms still clutching his last toy. Hollow glassy eyes stripped naked of joy Relentlessly repeating their question. Answers to which she bore on her person - Her own guilt that madness will not destroy.

Pieces of bread soaked in insecticide She fed the puppies with great tenderness. 'They'll infect my child' she smilingly said To the tail-wagging bitch who stood beside. 'Lest he get some incurable illness, 'Tis best I kill off your children instead.'

I'm someone, anyone; I might be Bachir Gemayel:
among guns and shells a Maronite; between powers a puppet - a pawn in a
Great Game; weak, then powerful; alive, then dead; somebody, anybody,
nobody. I might be someone else, I might be you, I might be a third
person; I might as well be Bachir Gemayel.